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Summary

The Elven Army comes bearing much needed food, Thranduil wants to play politics, the Master of Laketown is drunk and Bard would like to be left alone, thank you very much.

50% politics, 50% porn. 100% pure power play.

“Should we continue this later, then?” says Bard, “Since I seem to be interrupting your bath?”

Thranduil raises both his eyebrows but Bard remains stony faced. The elf merely continues to stare him down and Bard feels his jaw tightening until the words spill out.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “That was impertinent of me.”

A languid wave of the hand dismisses his concerns, “It is of no consequence. Tempers fray,” the Elvenking says, “You might do better with a hot bath. It eases the muscles,” he pauses and then adds pointedly, “clears the mind.”

Bard scowls at the Elvenking. He is certain the Elvenking has been provoking him quite intentionally.

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Summary

If, if, he wasn't very sure that he'd just come very hard possibly multiple times-

...But, unfortunately, he is very sure. And his mind is currently too fuzzy, too full of currents and sighs and lingering prickles of pleasure oh nnnngh, to allow anything but another whooped in breath and stunned, "Wow."

Summary

There has always been something between them that neither one has chosen to put a name to. They had hardly ever pursued it in the past except during rare moments when they were not enemies, or back in University when things were a lot more simple. The crux of the matter has always come down to the Master craving power and dominance and it seems as if the more the twisted power struggle continues, the more fractured their friendship has become. Until its all been reduced to this and the Master's bizarre methods of getting his attention, usually by force and no small amount of violence.

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Summary

The erstwhile Key-Wardeness of the starship Nargothrond gives us her perspective on (among other things) the Kin-slaying, Lúthien’s quest, pros and cons of zero-gravity trysting, and why Celegorm isn’t Such a Bad Guy.

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Summary

I'm a bit ashamed to say I just stood there staring. Nightingale fought fast, and dirty, and it was probably the adrenalin talking - I hope it was the adrenalin talking - but it was a bit of a turn-on.

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Summary

“Language, Peter,” Thomas chides, lifting his mouth from my nipple to grin hazily up at me. His lips are glistening wet, my nipple looks about the same. We’re both naked and sweaty and twined together in a way that is about as conducive (if a lot more pleasant) to attempted concentration as being hit repeatedly by a cricket bat-

And forma, specifically Thomas’ forma, is moving over me in lazy waves. Suckling at the hollow of my throat, teasing gently over my free nipple, gambolling down my stomach, whispering over my shaking thighs in a way that’d probably drive me totally insane if that barrier hadn’t been passed long ago.

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Summary

Separately, they're the lacrosse goalie, the quirky teen, the ex-murder suspect, the archer, the agent, the blonde, the point man, the architect, the ex-slave, the telepath; together, they become The Epithets!

Summary

"Gallifreyan sexualities, genders and sex drives fluctuate over lives and over bodies, and eventually they both figure out if Gallifrey still was, rather than no longer is, the Twelfth Doctor would have remained as he had been upon regeneration and the pre-Mistress days . That is, in answer to the aforementioned three characteristics, 'mostly none,' 'mostly male,' and 'no thanks,' respectively. But Gallifrey is (for now) no more, and though the Mistress would be happy to remain 'mostly none,' 'mostly female, these days,' and 'occasionally, but be mindful of my trick hip,' well biology intrudes. It makes things difficult." A very serious scientific fanfic about the nature of biology.